


Smokescreen

by Marrilyn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bad Cooking, Banter, F/F, Fire, Firefighters, Holding Hands, Hurt Rowena MacLeod
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-30 11:42:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18314627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marrilyn/pseuds/Marrilyn
Summary: Rowena's attempt at a surprise goes up in flames.





	Smokescreen

You couldn't have been gone for more than an hour. It was a quick run to the post office, a trip you'd made countless times. It was impossible for something to happen, for something to go horribly, terribly wrong in that amount of time. This was a small town. Aside from a few quarrels between neighbors, nothing ever happened here. Nothing sinister. Nothing remarkable.

Or so you'd thought until two minutes ago when the taxi had dropped you off in front of your house.

In front of your house, whose wide-open windows bled smoke like gaping wounds, while firefighters, scattered around your yard like crimson ants, rushed in and out, left and right, a flurry of movement and pounding feet and raised voices.

Heart stopping dead in its tracks, you started running toward it. The smoke, thick, dark, seeped out in gallons. Your house, shiny white, was tinted grey as if someone had wrapped a cloud of mist around it. What happened? How big was the damage? Had someone — a hunter, a demon, an unfriendly witch — attacked Rowena while you were away?

Where  _ was _ Rowena?

Your blood ran cold, followed by a chilly cascade of shivers sliding down your spine. You looked around frantically, desperate, pleading to every deity you could think of that she was okay, that she was safe and unharmed and far away from danger.  _ Please,  _ you begged.  _ Please, be okay. Please, be okay, Please be okay. _

A rush of images flooded your brain. Tossed furniture. Blood-smeared walls. A charred skeleton lying in the middle of the room with a phone on its chest. A lock of hair on the bed, as crimson as blood on the walls, neatly folded, a souvenir of what had gone on. A prize. Pieces of scalp still clinging to it, staining the sheets underneath it.

The smell, as fresh as the day you'd first felt it, flared up your nostrils, burning like acid. The smell of burnt flesh, of death, of everything good forever gone, never to return again. Never to be the same again.

_ No! _

You shook the thoughts away. It hadn't happened again. It couldn't have! Lucifer was dead, rotting in the Empty forever. Hunters, rogue witches, and everything and everyone else Rowena could handle.

Right?

Just as another horrible stream of thoughts flashed in your mind, you saw her. In the corner of the yard, behind a couple of firemen who were discussing something amongst themselves, Rowena stood tall (well, as tall as she could manage at her height) and proud. Her head was held high, lips a firm line that betrayed nothing, face equally blank. No emotion, all business. If the incident affected her (and you were certain it did), she didn't show it. These people, these strangers didn't get to see her weak. They didn't get to see her hurt.

"Rowena!" you called, relief washing over you. She was okay, you told yourself. She was safe. You had nothing to worry about.

She turned to you, and a small flicker of a smile grazed her mouth. "Y/N!"

You headed for the yard, only to be stopped by a firefighter. "Ma'am, you can't go in there," he said in that professional tone cops usually used. Polite, but firm. A tad friendly around the edges for a better effect.

"I live here," you told him. Gesturing to Rowena, you said, "That's my girlfriend over there!"

"Alright," he conceded. "But go no further than the yard. The house has still not been cleared."

You gave a nod and went in. Rowena met you halfway. As soon as you were near her, you threw your arms around her, wrapping her in a tight, bone-crushing hug. She smelled like smoke, but other than that she appeared fine. She stood still as a statue, frozen in place; she let you hold her, let you pull her in and feel her, bask in her presence. She was alive. She was safe. Nothing else mattered.

"Honey, are you okay?" you asked, pulling back and looking her over.

"I'm fine," she said, more tired than distressed.

Her hands were on her stomach, one clasped over the other. On first glance it appeared to be nothing more than a nervous gesture, but as you looked more closely, you could make out dark, reddish markings sprawled over her lower hand.

"What's this?"

Before she could utter a response, your hands were on hers, gently pulling it free to look it over. Aside from a defeated sigh, Rowena made no protests. It was useless to fight you. A losing battle she'd stopped engaging in a long time ago.

The top of her pale hand was red. The stain was sprawled over it like a crimson bruise, deep, dark, painful to even look at, let alone bear. You stared at it, shocked, mouth agape, then your eyes met Rowena's once again and you got a sudden urge to hug her again. No wonder she hadn't hugged you back.

"Its nothing," she said nonchalantly, but you could tell by her expression it was anything but. It hurt. Not only that, it probably reminded her of the last time she'd been burned.

The time when it wasn't just her hand — her entire body had been burned to a crisp.

You shook the unpleasant memories away, willing them to stay in the back of your mind where they belonged. Twice in one day was enough. You didn't need to remember it. You didn't want to remember it. You wished there was a way to erase the horrifying images out of your head for good.

"It's not nothing. You're hurt!" you said. "You need to get that looked at."

"I do not!" Rowena insisted. "It's just a wee burn. I've had worse." She shot you a meaningful look as she said it, a wordless reminder that you were there, that you'd seen it, felt it, smelled it right alongside her. That you'd held her hand and talked to her, even when she couldn't answer, when her throat and mouth hadn't regenerated yet, for hours on end. She'd survived that, and she would survive a mere second degree wound on her hand.

You were about to tell her it didn't matter, that she was still hurt, when one of the firefighters standing nearby said, "We offered to call for an ambulance, but she refused."

"She's good considering the entire kitchen was on fire," the firefighter next to him said. "That, and she wouldn't let us into the house."

You shot Rowena a pointed glare, a (you hoped) perfect replica of her murderous one. She rolled her eyes dramatically.

"Because I'm fine," she said, exasperated. "I had everything under control until these red bampots shows up!"

"Rowena!" you hissed warningly, cheeks flaming with shame. A small smile bloomed up on your mouth, fake but polite. "She didn't mean that. She's in shock."

The firefighters didn't appear convinced, but, with tight smiles and curt nods, they let it go.

Rowena gave another roll of her eyes, equally dramatic as the first one. You swore she had to have practiced them in the mirror.

"What happened?" you asked.

"Just a wee accident."

You looked to the small streaks of smoke still seeping out the windows and back to her. Your eyebrow shot up, suspicious, disbelieving. "A wee accident?"

"Yes!" Rowena exclaimed. She turned her head to the side, suddenly finding the fence interesting. Desperate to avoid your eyes, your suspicion, your accusation. Giving a sigh, she said in a voice that was barely above a whisper, "I was trying to cook."

No way! You had to have heard it wrong. "You were what?"

She glared at you as if you'd just killed her entire family. "I was trying to cook!"

Before you could try to hold it back, a snort escaped you. Then another, and another, and soon your were laughing heartily as if you'd just heard the funniest joke of your life.

Rowena had tried to cook. Not only that, but she'd almost burned the house down while she'd been at it. If someone had told you that, you wouldn't have believed them.

Rowena never cooked.  _ Never. _ She made potions and tea and various other beverages, but she never, ever cooked. She refused, and you respected that. The restaurant food the two of you ordered was more than excellent. There was no need for either her or you to cook.

As it turned out, there was a reason she never did.

"You're horrible!" she whined, cradling her burned hand to her chest. Her lower lip popped out in a pout. "Laughing at an injured woman."

"Sory," you said in-between fits of laughter. You took a breath, one, two, three deep ones, to regain your composure. "It's just… you never cook."

"I wanted to today," she said petulantly. A bratty little thing she was.

_ Your _ bratty little thing. You loved her exactly as she was.

"It was supposed to be a surprise."

You cocked up an eyebrow. "A surprise?"

"Aye." Her cheeks burned red, embarrassed, awkward. Adorable. "I wanted to make your favorite food."

The admission made you melt like an ice sculpture hit by bright, warm sun rays. She wanted to do something nice for you, wanted to surprise you, and had gotten hurt in the process. You couldn't be mad at her for that, couldn't laugh and poke fun. She had nothing but the best intentions at heart.

"You're adorable, you know that?" you said.

Rowena's eyes locked right with yours, defiant. "Am not."

"Are, too," you insisted. "My precious little cupcake."

"Y/N!" she warned, not at all appreciative of the nickname, especially surrounded by strangers.

You grinned. "You  _ are! _ And I love you for it. So much." You grabbed her healthy hand in both of yours and gave it a squeeze. "But I beg of you, never try to cook again."

"I don't intend to," she said with a scowl.

"Good. One fire was enough."

A snort, and then a chuckle, accompanied your words.

Rowena rolled her eyes. "You will never let me live this down, will you?"

"Nope," you said, popping the p.

"That's what I get for trying to be nice."

"Uh huh. No good deed goes unpunished."

"Rude."

"Always, honey." You pecked her on the cheek, a swift brush of lips over warm, flushed skin. Your eyes trailed down to her injured hand. "You really should get that taken care of."

"I will, when we're allowed back in," Rowena said.

"I volunteer to be your nurse," you said.

She smirked. "Naughty."

"Pervert," you retorted, laughing.

"You started it," she said nonchalantly.

"It's not my fault you sexualize everything," you teased.

"Sure."

"It's not!"

"Keep telling yourself that, dear."

The banter lasted for a good few minutes, until the firefighters announced the house was safe to go back in. The smell of smoke would linger for a while, they warned, and gave a few tips on how to make it go away. You listened intently, even though the advice was useless to you; Rowena already had a spell ready. A few Latin words, and your house would smell as good as new.

And, once you made a call to the restaurant, it would smell like your favorite food.

**Author's Note:**

> Edited by OswinTheStrange.


End file.
